It had reached the ears of the czar, and Alexis was not a little angered; already I think his mind was poisoned by the tales that later ruined Feodor, for soon after this he lost favor, and it was bruited about that he was a traitor to the czar. It was fifteen months afterwards when I was summoned to take care of Madame Ramodanofsky; she died when her little son was born. The boy lived only two days, and they were buried together. Feodor felt his loss bitterly; he was then under a heavy cloud, and threatened, I knew, with exile; for I have known most of the secrets of the court for many years. No man seemed to be able to lay his finger on the boyar’s accuser, but I never doubted that it was Vladimir. “It was the week after the wife and baby died that I was entering the courtyard of Ramodanofsky’s house. Homyak was just ahead of me; he seemed to be Feodor’s evil genius. There was quite a little crowd in the court; all the serfs were there, and in the center of the place, in a pool of blood, lay Feodor, stricken down by the hand of an unknown assassin, so they said. He was not dead, and I had him carried into the house, and bound up his wounds; I thought he would live, but I was not positive, and had to leave him still in a state of semi-consciousness. As I crossed the courtyard, Homyak plucked at my cloak. I have always hated the grinning creature, and made a motion to shake him off. ‘How is the boyar?’ he asked eagerly; ‘He will live,’ I retorted curtly. The dwarf laughed. ‘Vladimir Sergheievitch is not as good a swordsman as I thought,’ he said. ‘It was that villain, then?’ I exclaimed too eagerly, for Homyak took alarm, and rambled off into one of his fanciful tales of which one can make nothing. The next day, before I could see my patient, Vladimir Sergheievitch Ramodanofsky appeared at the palace to announce the death of his brother, and was closeted with the czar. I never saw even the corpse of Feodor. I protested as openly as I dared against the foul play that, I was sure, was taking place, but there was no room for complaints. Vladimir’s tongue is oiled, and he had the ear of the council; he laid before them certain treasonable papers purporting to be his brother’s, and the upshot was, that the dead boyar’s memory was an ill savor in the nostrils of the court, and his honors and emoluments went to Vladimir. If Feodor Sergheievitch had lived, he would have been sent into exile. His little daughter was turned over to the guardianship of the fiend who had endeavored to ruin her mother and had murdered her father. The child, fortunately, was ignorant of it all, and has grown up in her uncle’s household; and as he has no children, will probably inherit her own, in the end. She is rich even now, for the czar had the justice to see that she was not robbed of all her patrimony.” I had listened with keen interest, because I foresaw the end of the story. “This Boyar Ramodanofsky, then, has no children?” I said. “And the young lady with him?”